


Expectations

by BirdsHaveTeeth



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, Female Apprentice (The Arcana), Fluff and Angst, Lucio is bad at feelings, Self-Doubt, and comforting people, angsty but then soft, but its meant to be platonic, it be like that sometimes, self-image issues, very subtle implied Asra/Apprentice, you can read it to be however you want though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 00:50:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdsHaveTeeth/pseuds/BirdsHaveTeeth
Summary: “How can you even look at me—” You’ve never been particularly sensitive, so this mental breakdown of yours was surprising you even more than it was him it seemed. “—and say those things?”“Like…” You waved your hand, searching for the right words, “Like youmeanthem!”





	Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> **A/n: Is this a mess? Yes. Did I get carried away when writing this? Also yes. Am I unashamed by my love for this terrible man? Questionable.**  
. . .

You were never the type to worry too heavily about your appearance, seeing as not many people bothered to notice you before you’d been invited to the palace. Back then you were just the Count’s Magician, and the only things the servants thought of you was how mysterious you were. Though, now that you’ve been lavished in such rich attention, been exposed to the luxury of palace living and self-image, you couldn’t help but feel… plain.

Plain, boring, nothing special. And yet you had captured the attention of your polar opposite, the lascivious, prim, perfect, and pretty Count that had swept you off your feet and into one big mess. You were still at a loss about that, even after the mess had been cleaned and, your blooming courtship with the arrogant Count had polished you to what he called “perfection”. 

Every day it seemed a servant was at your door with expensive silks and jewels to bury you in, dressing you up like a queen. Nevermind the way all these things clashed with your style, what was more important is that you didn’t _belong_ in them. You belonged in comfortably well-worn clothes that rarely matched, dancing with your uneven skirts with Asra as your inexpensive jewelry glittered and clinked cheaply against your neck. And yet here you were, being dolled up like royalty and given the most beautiful things to wear every morning to compliment Lucio’s own choice of dress that day.

You carded your gold-ringed fingers through your hair with a sigh, taking in your reflection in the floor-length mirror you stood before. You held the dress up to your chest, still on its hanger, and untouched since it arrived. You smoothed the skirts over your legs to eyeball how it would the fit, and you guessed pretty well, but again you sighed and tore yourself away from your reflection, laying the beautiful garment on your bed and making your way into the oversized bathroom attached to your room.

When you’d first used it, you’d almost leaped right into the tub, your clothes still in the air as you tipped into the warm water eagerly. Now the size and elegance of the room swallowed you in its hugeness, and not in a good way. Still, you changed into your bathrobes and stepped into the warm water, soothed by the heat, and yet distressed by how comfortable it was. 

You could still remember hanging up beach towels out behind the shop to act as curtains as you and Asra splashed one another with buckets of lukewarm water, using your magic to rinse the dirt and the grime of a good few days worth of traveling.

You never stayed in the water long, simply dipping your body into to wash your skin and hair before you were toeing out of the heavenly pool of scented luxury and drying yourself off with _too-white-and-too-soft_ towels.

You make the mistake of catching your reflection in the mirror above one of the vanities as you were tying a dry robe around your nakedness. You stopped to stare for a while, watching the tiny drops of water drip from your still-damp hair down your forehead, past your boring eyes, and plain features into the crevice of your chapped lips despite all the spa treatments you were offered. 

Shaking yourself out of it before you could get carried away, you blinked your eyes a few times as you made your way back into the bedroom. You couldn’t put it aside any longer, you had to get dressed. Sighing to yourself for what felt like the thousandth time, you gingerly lifted the intricately embroidered garment and let the silk robe fall from your hips onto the floor in a pile of expensive fabric.

A few hiccups and a bashful call for a maid to help you lace up, you stood before the mirror in a full-length, ballroom dress, a bloody, crimson in color with many black and gold embellishments. The chill of Prakran gold around your neck and dangling from your ears, similarly intricate gold bands around your wrists that bit lightly into the flesh.

You stare into the mirror, drinking in your appearance, the dress is indeed beautiful… but…

You sink to your knees in front of your reflection, the skirt of the crimson garment pillowing around you as you slide down until you’re seated gracelessly on the panels of the floor, your still heel-less feet buried beneath the heap of fabric. 

You close your eyes as the familiar dread creeps into your chest, and suddenly you’re back in the shop, _looking hastily in the mirror as you smooth down your colorful skirts. _

_Faust is corded around your forearm, and Asra is just across the room adjusting the strap of his satchel._

_“Pretty!” You hear Faust squeak, and you can’t help but chuckle turning on your heel to slip into a pair of chunky sandals. Asra turns and you just about toss a sandal in his direction when he careens back and laughs._

_“Here, let me help,” The magician teases as he skirts around the bed to adjust the straps thrown clumsily over your shoulders and roll up the insanely longs sleeves to your elbows, Faust slithers up to your shoulder to dangle around your neck glancing upside down at Asra as he rights your dress. “There, now are you ready?”_

_“Yes.”_

_You and the ivory-haired boy danced the night away while you were at the autumn festival, looking ravenously at the many food stands that were set up down the street, a bread-shop drawing the both of you in almost immediately after arriving. You left with a few boxes of freshly-baked goods, and shamefully lighter coin-purses. _

_You remember waking up in a tangle of both of your limbs, your skirts, and Faust the next morning, the makeup you’d worn still smeared across your face as you and Asra made breakfast together._

When you open your eyes again, you are met with the devastatingly dolled-up version of your reflection. As if on cue, you hear three crisp knocks sound from behind the door and an all too familiar voice all but singing to you through the wooden barrier.

“Pet, you know I loathe when you keep me waiting~ have you tried on the new dress I had commissioned for you?” You hear Lucio’s voice call, and your heart sinks into the pit of your stomach at the thought of leaving your sanctuary now. The Count was always delighted to see you dressed up in the things he picked for you, and normally you quite enjoyed his attention but you didn’t feel like being showered in compliments right now. Not even his. 

When you don’t respond, Lucio takes it upon himself to open the door and waltz in anyways. you can just barely see his reflection approaching, but you can clearly hear the clicks of his heels against the floors of your bedroom. He seems to be taken aback by your position on the ground, and even more so when you don’t even turn away from the mirror to look at him as he enters. 

And you’re not the only one who knows how much he hates _not_ being the center of attention, in any circumstance. As you meet his black-lined eyes in the mirror it looks like he was going to open his mouth and say something smart about, or joke about how gorgeous you look on your knees, but it dies with his breath when he realizes that you are upset.

“Whatever is the matter, Dove? Do you not like the dress?” Lucio inquires with an almost incredulous look on his face as he speaks, inspecting the expensive garment with wandering eyes, trying to nit-pick out any reasons why you might not like it. You only shake your head and shift your gaze to your hands folded in your lap. Lucio purses his lips into a thin line, as if deep in thought, “Well, then what is it that troubles you?”

“I feel out of place,” You sigh, there was no use in beating around the bush, so you decided to be bluntly honest, even if you doubted he’d understand. Actually, you fully expected him to laugh at you like the very suggestion was absurd. “Don’t laugh.”

You don’t know why you felt the need to say it, nor the reason why your eyes start watering. Why were you crying? There was no reason for you to be, and yet you felt the salt bubble beneath your eyes an start to drip leisurely down the side of your face.

Lucio is frozen in place behind you, at a complete loss of how to proceed. He wasn’t sure what brought this mood swing on but he certainly knows he doesn’t like the solemn look you now wear.

“No one is laughing, my dear, I assure you that,” The recovered Count assures, but you don’t miss the hesitant lilt in his voice as he speaks. Clearly, he’s never been faced with the task of comforting someone, and it shows because he’s not very good at it. 

He isn’t eager to get on the floor with you, but he leans down just enough to place both hands over your shoulders, the sharp points of his golden fingers trace up your neck and take a hold of your jaw, tilting your head from side to side.

“I don’t see what the problem is, you fit me quite well.” Lucio purrs, his breath suddenly close to your ear, and you normally would have laughed at the potential double meaning of the phrase, but you find you don’t have it in you.

“A pretty face, good bone structure, healthy complexion… and I don’t think another can fill that dress as well as you,” Your face is heating up quickly, compliments were still quite alien to you, and therefore even the smallest ones had you breathless and redder than the sun. “I truly can’t imagine why you feel out of place, Pet.” _All things considered_, he thinks.

“I can conclude that you’re nothing short of ravishing—”

“Stop.” Comes the sudden solidity of your voice as it barks the order, and Lucio only looks down at you with raised brows. And then his lips twist into a sultry grin, the edges of his golden fingers tracing the contours of your face.

“Why? you should feel privileged to be receiving such praise from—”

_“Stop.”_ Your voice shakes as you say it this time, you twist out of his grip and return your gaze to your lap, where your gold-ringed knuckles are going pale with the pressure. Your body shakes with an involuntary choke of a sob, even though you try to contain it.

The Count looks more than shaken up bearing witness to your unusually emotional state, and even more so that you are refusing not only his touch but also his thought out words of empowerment. _How rude._ His eyes narrow and his lips scrunch into a pout, irritation flaring up in his chest upon being ignored.

Before he can open his big mouth to complain about you being difficult, you’re seething out a question he isn’t prepared to hear.

“How can you even look at me—” You’ve never been particularly sensitive, so this mental breakdown of yours was surprising you even more than it was him it seemed. “—and say those things?”

“Like…” You waved your hand, searching for the right words, “Like you _mean_ them!” You sobbed, finally burying your face in your hands, embarrassed and angry at the way you’d so easily melted into his praise before as if he’d meant a single word of it. You knew better.

Lucio baffled and speechless is a sight to see, in fact, it almost makes you want to laugh, even if only bitterly. He is forced to quickly come up with plan B, something he’s only ever had to even waste a single careless thought about before meeting you. Flattery obviously isn’t working, so he’ll have to try something else. Something in the very back of his mind is tugging at the strings for his attention, murmuring something along the lines of “honesty”, and Lucio scoffs at the word.

“I disagree, I am many things, but I am no liar—” Lucio starts and you whip your head around with an angry, accusatory glare, and he snaps his mouth shut wisely. “Okay, so maybe I’m not entirely clean, but I do mean it when I say I never settle for anything less than perfection. And why would I? I mean look at me, do you think someone this beautiful is going—”

He trails off from his self-appraising rant when you sigh and turn away from him again, disinterested. Lucio deflates slightly, eyes darting around as if looking for something else to sway you with, though comes out of it empty-handed. The Count lets out a frustrated grumble of something you don’t quite catch underneath his breath, and he rolls his shoulders with a distasteful grimace and a deep breath as if he’s trying to push himself to say something.

None too quietly, he steps around you so he can unceremoniously—and a bit clumsily if you do say so yourself—drops down to sit beside you in front of the mirror, flicking a stray dust bunny from the bottom of his boots with a mildly disgusted grunt. You find yourself constantly glancing at him in the corner of your eye as he fiddles with the fur along his cloak, though you avert your eyes as soon as he realizes it.

“Forgive me, I’m not good at this sort of thing,” _That much was already obvious,_ you want to say, that is until it dawns on you that he just _apologized._ Him, the most self-centered, and entitled person you’ve ever met, apologizing _and_ admitting he wasn’t the best at something. When you shift your eyes over to him, he seems to be stealing glances every five seconds, looking to you for some sort of guidance. 

It’s a little frustrating that you already find your anger starting to subside, seeing as he truly had no idea how to go about helping you, and even openly admitting so—or well as close to it as possible, it _is_ Lucio after all. It’s strange how watching your lover struggle to do the simplest of human-like things makes you sympathize with him, given that he is the reason you’re upset in the first place. 

But could you even say that much was true? I mean it can’t be entirely his fault if you’re feeling self-conscious, even if he constantly preached about how high his standards were, he’s never truly _forced_ you to wear lavish things. If you constantly allowed it, how’s he supposed to know doing so makes you feel like you aren’t appealing in anything else than gold and expensive silks? You sigh, defeatedly, you didn’t want to make it seem like you weren’t still frustrated with him but at the same time, it seems silly for you to play hard to get because you’re sad and insist he figures it out on his own. You weren’t _that girl._

“I know, I’m just—ugh—having a bad day I suppose,” You relent, rubbing the back of your neck that’s grown stiff from being titled down too long, “I just—It’s hard for me to believe that you even… that you could have anyone in Vesuvia you want, and you want _me._” You sigh, leaning back on your palms and meeting his eyes in the mirror again. 

He’s letting you speak, and he’s listening, for once. Encouraged slightly by that revelation you continue, “And I just don’t know If I can live up to this spontaneous, perfect, and gorgeous person you’re always saying that I am.” 

Lucio looks a bit startled that you’ve been doubting yourself like this, he hadn’t known that you were taking all his ramblings of perfection and high standards of living and relationship goals to heart like this. 

_Expectations._ If there’s anything Lucio knows well, it’s that, if his childhood had anything to say about it. Back then he had constantly tried again and again to impress his parents, especially his mother. But he was never good enough for her it seemed, she was always disappointed in him throughout his early years as Montag, someone he hasn’t been for a very long time.

“Oh Darling, you should’ve said! I’m not really as particular as I say, you don’t have to go out of your way to impress me—” He frowns distastefully and sounds just a bit embarrassed when he adds, ”—especially considering that I was a blubbering, dead goat for three years with no purpose, and you still put up with _me._” To that, you can’t help but chuckle, and the Count’s playful grin returns in full, his ego soaring to have won you over with his charms once again. He couldn’t blame you, he _was_ irresistible.

You could almost hear how loud his grin was, and despite it being anything if not shit-eating you’re comforted by it returning. You had to admit, looking lost wasn’t a good look for him.

“Aaannd that you’re still insufferable now, and I still put up with you.” You add with a sly grin, watching his face twist into a pout, he _hmmph!’s_ and crosses his arms as he turns away.

“Don’t have to milk it, Dove, you should be happy I went so far as to insult _myself_ for your own entertainment at all!” The Count argued, giving you the stink eyes as you only continue to laugh at his expense. He can’t deny that his heart feels a little lighter now that you seem to be your old smiling self again, even if he is offended. Though he does feel the need to say,

“You’re beautiful you know that, don’t you, Darling? Even without my _fashionable influence._” He quipped, but you could tell he was being genuine just by the subtle difference in his smile compared to his cocky, sultry grins he usually wore when he complimented you. 

You didn’t agree with him but you bumped his shoulder with yours affectionately, a smile creepingly itself onto your lips as his human hand slithered around to grasp your side and pull you in closer against his broad figure. “You sap.” You joke teasingly, but he’s not taking that for a proper answer.

“Nooo, I wanna hear you say it, come on! I deserve that much at least!” He whines, both arms capturing within their grasp and dragging you into his lap as you squeal, tugging at his arms as your back pressed against his front. 

His nose buries itself into your neck, and he nuzzles fluttering kisses from your shoulder to your jaw, and you squirm at the ticklish feeling of his hair against your pulse.

“You don’t deserve shit!” You’re nothing but giggles now because he starts attacking your sides with his normal hand—for obvious reasons—, and you can’t stifle your squealing laugh as you try in vain to squirm away from his tickling. “Knock it off—_pff aha-hah!_—L-Let me go, wretched goatman!” You seethe through your teeth as the giggles continue to spill from them.

“Just say the magic words and will gladly release you, Sweetling,” You hear Lucio purr into your ear as his teeth just barely graze your shoulder, pulling small bits between them to leave light marks wherever he went. You didn’t last long.

“Okay—okay! I get it, I’m great! Imma fucking magical goddess of your dreams—now let me go!” You shouted in defeat, cheeks burning with color from not only laughing so hard but because of the satisfies hum he vibrates onto your skin at your submission of power. He releases you suddenly and you only tumble back into him, knocking you both onto the floor in the process.

“That’s all I wanted to hear.” Lucio teases breathlessly as he lays flat on his back with you draped over him as you caught your breath. You huffed and turned yourself over so you could face him without actually getting up and off of him, planting your elbows against his chest to lean your chin against her palms and smirk down at the blonde.

“You’re insufferable, I can’t stand you sometimes I swear.” You jab, mouth twisted to feign irritation, though the way the corners of your mouth keep twitching up to resist gives you away immediately. The Count’s grin only widens, he wouldn’t have needed to see your expression slipping to know that was a bunch of malarky and you loved it when you had moments like these. He sure did at least.

“No, you _love me._” You want to laugh in his face and say ‘Hogwash, you’re despicable’, but you refrain despite the temptation because he’s not _wrong._ And he _did_ just go out of his way to cheer you up you supposed.

You lean down to peck his lips with your own, pulling away much too soon for his liking but he makes no effort to chase you. 

“Unfortunately,” The smugness of the smirk he gives you once the word leaves your mouth is almost enough for you to enact your revenge and tickle him while his chest is puffed out so much, but instead you add, “but you’re still not off the hook yet, you still owe me dinner after yesterday’s episode, Lucio.” 

Long story short, the Count got sloshed as all hell yesterday evening with some guests, and you ended up dining with the Courtiers instead, not an ideal experience. And on top of that, you had to drag an annoyingly drunk Lucio to bed, and then listen to him getting personal with the waste bin and then the toilet afterward because some dumbass servant let him have whiskey and he can't stomach it _at all._ Nevermind the fact that Lucio is a whiney baby whenever he gets that wasted and demanded you feel sorry for him because he can't handle his alcohol. 

“I don’t recall—” You smack his cheek none-too-lightly and he looks like he’s just remembered something, “Oh, right… that.” 

“I said I was sorry,” He pouts, arms wrapping around you as if to somehow sway you and sweet-talk his way out of this. Though your stern look shoves whatever smooth-talk he had in mind down his throat, he knows better than to try and negotiate with you. “Alright, I give, what did you have in mind, Dove?” 

You smile a devilish, sinister smile and Lucio looks nervous beneath you. 

“The shop, we’re gonna cook our _own dinner_, together.” Lucio groans dramatically and his head falls back onto the floor with a thump, obviously not thrilled since he _couldn't be bothered_ to even think about cooking for himself. He wants to complain, but he thinks back to the little bits of last night he could remember where you’d put up with him almost the entire night. Stupid whiskey, stupid friends getting him in trouble... 

“_Fine_, I suppose that’s fair." 


End file.
